


only incidental

by roundthedecay



Series: an enemy of my enemy [2]
Category: Vampire: The Masquerade, Vampire: The Masquerade – Bloodlines (Video Game)
Genre: Anarch Movement (Vampire: The Masquerade), Camarilla (Vampire: The Masquerade), Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Original Character(s), Slow Burn, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, plot heavy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:20:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23586781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roundthedecay/pseuds/roundthedecay
Summary: a direct sequel to "an enemy of my enemy"There's no clear path forward for enemies-turned-reluctant allies, but Nines and LaCroix fall into it headfirst. Trust is slow, but Los Angeles' politics won't wait for them to catch up.
Relationships: Sebastian LaCroix/Nines Rodriguez
Series: an enemy of my enemy [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1696678
Comments: 13
Kudos: 47





	1. of trust and suspicion

**Author's Note:**

> this took!!!! forever to get out......ive just been sitting on it for months and really just, cannot work on it any longer..... but I got so many nice comments on the last piece I really wanted to post it. i hope its still fun to read, i have so much love for this game and for these two specifically. thanks to everyone who left comments on the previous work, if I didn't get around to answering you please know I appreciated it so so much! 
> 
> this is a direct sequel, and wont be understood without reading enemy of my enemy, first
> 
> all chapters are outlined, first three already written, I'm gonna try my best to stick with it! Rating will change and tags will be added as story goes on, not beta'd but i did try my best to edit

The aftermath is just as surreal as every other part of it. Nines isn't sure how to navigate waking up in that apartment knowing an enemy slept so close, only separated by thin walls. 

Stranger, enemy, something else.

If they're working backward into something it won't happen soon enough. Nines gets a call from Damsel first thing in the evening, and LaCroix watches him from the couch impassively, arms crossed and with nothing strategic to add, and as if shielding himself from being scapegoated. Smart, because Nines is on edge and thinks he wouldn't need much motivation to snap at him.

It's not his fault and yet it is, all the same.

Damsel is fine - the Last Round is still standing as of yet - but they needed to regroup and take stock.

"Gather your allies," LaCroix says, careful and neutral, "We can meet again later, at your convenience."

Nines agrees. He needs the air.

They part ways and the days fall into a quick rhythm, fast and overwhelming, and every hour of his night is consumed by politicking and organizing and gathering allies. Favors for favors, violent confrontations, and bad news always incoming faster than any sort of relief.

LaCroix is a constant thought in those moments in between, in those seconds when things slow down. When his allies and enemies both have run out of things to say to him and in the quiet, before dusk hits, it's all he can think about. He continues to doubt it even happened, but he remembers the address of the apartment with stark clarity. He remembers his hands around a pale neck and he remembers the hands of a stranger, pulling him away from danger. It's inexplicable.

No one knows but the fledgling and at the next Anarch meeting her stares are pointed and heavy with questions and perhaps, accusation. He spots her at the back of the borrowed theatre, sitting apart from the crowd - not out of ostracization but by choice: she liked to keep her distance for the illusion of her independence and Nines allows her this.

"It's been an intense few days, but we're holding out. We all know there are no such things as fast and painless solutions but we have to remember - our victories can't be undermined. Overthrowing a Prince?" - LaCroix, he thinks of LaCroix, "Is a big fucking deal. The MacNiels aren't the same as an international institution built off of old money and even older blood. Turf wars, local politics - this is just part of being kindred and we can't get caught up in the loss of it," Nines says to the audience. 

He didn't move up to the front to speak, instead opting to just stand in his seat in the corner. Damsel was leading the discussion as Den Mother and asked him to speak for morale's sake.

He's underplaying the situation just a bit, but it still holds mostly truth. It helps to say it aloud, as it quiets his own doubts that arise whenever collective faith has begun to waver. It seems to work, judging by the nodding heads and energized mumbling. Damsel grins at him, pleased, and takes the reins from him, outlining ideas that were being tossed around. Their next steps are something hotly debated, and it's a lively discussion that weighs the benefit of direct retaliation with Nines occasionally voicing his thoughts, but for the most part, hanging back and taking stock of general opinion and mood.

He makes careful note of the crowd dynamics - the fall of the Camarilla introduced a flood of new kindred not looking to uproot their lives just because of a fallen regime and who in the aftermath have decided to throw their lot in with the Anarch Free State. There's Virginia, a fashionable Toreador, new to their scene with practical opinions and an associate of Isaac. James, a young Brujah who's never been Cammy, intensely loyal but with the inclination to talk out of turn and Byte, a friendly but flaky Noserfatu who can't seem to choose between the cause or family, one of Gary's many strays. There's a whole lot of thin-bloods and newbies who's names Nines had yet to commit to faces, all only vague associations.

Except for a few. He knows of some thin-bloods rallying together behind a common identity - they show up sometimes, stir the pot and stick it to the man in a way Nines can't help but be impressed. He also knows one, by chance and coincidence, a girl named Rosa that he spots by the back, and who keeps glancing back at him.

Her sire was Malkavian, there's no mistaking it, even with the supposed distance of thin-bloods from their clans. She sits always with arms crossed looking nervous, nervous and burdened by the depth of her own perception. He'd met her during his last exile, another kindred trying to skip town. He found her trying, and failing to bargain a car for herself. He couldn't spot her the entire car but offered her a place to rest for the night and as things go, a helping hand as she gathered funds to stabilize herself.

He had hoped Los Angeles would seem less cruel to her then, perhaps convince her to stick around. He rubs the back of his neck as he thinks about it; it seems less likely now. She seems itching to come talk to him and he isn't surprised when she quickly makes her way over to him once the meeting ends, as people funnel out of the room and separate into their groups. 

"Rosa," he greets at the same time she interjects, "I have to tell you something".

Never a good phrase to hear, "What's up?"

For all of the stress marring her features she speaks the words with unquestionable firmness, "You're in danger. Or, you will be."

Nines tenses, "Do you mean more than I already am?"

She nods in a jerky motion, "The air is bad- worse than usual. It's not just this business with the MacNiels, It's more than that."

Rosa leans in closer to him and as if trying to untangle her thoughts in a desperate whisper, "I see - a mountain? Mountain peaks. Look for the mirrors. I see you, red in blood, covered in it. There are men -" her eyebrows furrow, "a man, who wishes you great harm."

That causes Nines to draw in a sharp breath and it's like a coldness settles and sinks his stomach. He knows he fails to keep the anger off his face because of how she begins to recoil.

"I'm sorry," she starts, "I don't know what I say."

"No, don't apologize," he assures her, "I'm not upset at you. It's just a lot."

Rosa shrugs it off but her eyes remain docile.

"I would tell you to leave while you have the chance, but you would never. Not of your own will. It's what I should do."

Rosa is often confusing and Nines doesn't know where to begin unraveling what it means. Her words tend to hit him with resounding finality.

"Are you leaving?" is what sticks first.

"Maybe, I don't know. I was trying to leave when we met."

"I remember."

Nines likes Rosa, very simply. It's his knack for picking up strays but he can't help but find she tugs at his sympathy. If she left, he would feel saddened by it 

"Not settling into that apartment?"

"Not close enough to the ocean," she says and Nines can smile at that.

He opens his mouth to pull her into more conversation when he sees out the corner of his eyes the fledgling, arms crossed and waiting impatiently.

"Sorry Rosa, let's catch up another time," He says, and she turns around in recognition.

"I understand," she says, nodding a quick greeting to the fledgling before ducking out.

"Rosa?" the fledgling asks him.

"Yeah, we've talked before," Nines explains.

"Whatever she tells you, you should probably heed it…"

Nines looks at her seriously, before giving the room a quick once over, eyeing the remaining stragglers still crowding Damsel.

"Let's go somewhere quieter," he says.

He leads Lenore to one of the theatre's side doors, ignoring the side glances they attract, to lead her up the service stairs. No better place than the roof, to avoid eavesdroppers and onlookers.

He's sure she's upset and the worry leaks out of her in waves. When they make it to the final set of stairs, the lock to the rooftop was long broken and Nines held the door for her to let her through. She walks ahead of him, the sharp clack of short heels echoing out onto the city.

"What the hell, Nines?" she starts the second the door closes behind him.

"I'm -"

"It's been days - almost a week - and you still haven't gotten back to me about… _him_."

"Kid, you've seen how things are. I've got half of the city on my back."

She stares him down, long and steady, "Is he dead?"

"You're not gonna like the answer."

Her eyebrows furrow and confusion and hurt and Nines feels regret. Regret and sympathy he knows he'll be forced to compartmentalize.

"Why," she says, spit out through gritted teeth. It's not even a question but Nines still tries to answer.

"Because things keep going to shit, Lenore. And I'm not in a position to turn down help."

"You don't need his help -"

"And -" he interrupts her, "It just doesn't feel right to kill a guy when he's not provoking you."

"Bullshit! On all counts."

"Lenore. We need to use him. If it backfires we'll do something but for now let's ride this out, okay?"

She glares and pushes past him, with all her patience worn and distressed. She stops before opening the door, and Nines can see the way she counts down, breathes in and out, her hand on the handle.

"I did do what you asked, by the way. I looked into it for you. No one knows anything but don't count on that lasting."

It's her final words before she storms away.

He quashes the urge to be angry at her, reminding himself her sentiments are perfectly reasonable and well within her rights. Even more so when she remembers how young she is and how new kindred politics were to her.

He knows this wouldn't be her last disappointment. But Nines hadn't been lying when he had told her he was planning on killing LaCroix that night; it's just that things rarely turn out so simple. Nines is a man of principles, and he was also a man who could appreciate the big picture when it was presented to him.

It's not a compromise - just a momentary necessity. It's what he tells himself.

Being Kindred, being a creature forced to subsist on the living and with all eventuality, kill, was more than enough of a moral cross for Nines. More than enough to cope with. He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated and feeling constantly out of time.

* * *

There's no clear path forward for enemies-turned-reluctant allies, Nines learns quickly, and their first week together is a series of missteps. They both think they know where to start, so they move disjointedly with little grace. It's all stepped-on toes, frustration, and second thoughts, except in moments that Nines can gleam a certain potential.

LaCroix is eager to work, eager to dig up information with a one-track mind kind of dedication. He operates in a world familiar yet, unfamiliar to Nines, one of inner-Camarilla politics and properties and quid-pro-quos that outsiders were not necessarily privy to. It felt like an in Nines hadn't had before, one that he would have never sought out for himself out of the principle of it.

It still feels uncomfortable, following Camarilla leads when he's always had bigger fish to fry since they've kicked their last Prince to the curb. LaCroix too seems unused to answering to anyone other than himself, is unused to collaboration the way an only child might be.

They're working on it.

LaCroix calls Nines to meet him the following night as if he had somehow cosmically sensed his confrontation with the fledgling. He tells him to meet him at the public library downtown; an odd choice Nines wasn't expecting and that still leaves him on guard as much as anything else involving the other man.

In a sense, he always looks forward to meeting with Lacroix, only for the further confirmation he hadn't imagined up a spectre, as was so easy to do when days passed between them.

It was becoming difficult to tell where anticipation and anxiety became to separate things.

So he made his way to the library, which by the looks given to him by the staff at the circulation desk, was about to close. He ignored them and took the steps past all the contemporary shelves and computers to the more secluded archival section of the library.

It took longer to find LaCroix than he expected it to, but he eventually stumbled upon him in a forgotten nook with all sorts of materials before him. He doesn't look up at Nines straight away, preferring to finish whatever note he was writing to himself before acknowledging him.

"You look busy," Nines comments.

"Well, the Camarilla connections we're looking for won't reveal themselves."

Nines chuckles and leans over him to catch a glimpse at what he was reading: copies of what looked to be ledgers.

"I can't imagine these are all public record?"

"Some are," LaCroix replies with a slight smirk, before turning up to look at him directly.

"Still haven't come to terms with our arrangement?"

"Not enough for either of us to get comfortable, but enough to work."

"All I ask," LaCroix says.

Nines sizes him up where he is - LaCroix looks more casual than Nines has ever seen him, with rolled-up sleeves and ink-stained fingertips and tie forgone. He almost looks like a graduate student or something of the sort, with how young his face is.

It's all so ridiculous, Nines thinks, before shaking himself out of it.

"Well, my turn to pitch," he starts, " Do you know about the new de-facto MacNiels' leader?"

LaCroix nods sharply, "Of course."

"I know you're looking into the Camarilla investments right now but I think there's something there too we need to look at. "

He looks hesitant, "How so?"

"The other day I caught one of their underlings with a ridiculous amount of cash. I'm guessing it's drug money. I'm guessing that means they have some laundering situation set up, and it makes me wonder how much they're keeping on reserve."

Nines can spot LaCroix's tension, like he wants to argue or maybe ask if this is a test.

It kind of is.

"…I'll see what I can find."

"Good," Nines says. 

A beat passes between them, Nines appraises and considers. "It's worth repeating how delicate this partnership is," he repeats. 

LaCroix holds his stare like no one else.

"I'm well aware"

Perhaps it's just posturing at this point but he feels he owes it to Lenore's righteous anger.

LaCroix reads it off him and continues, "You can rest assured my primary concern is keeping my head off a pike, as I'm sure many would have it. "

As I would have had it, Nines thinks, but the thought is upsetting in several ways.

"Not something to be taken for granted," Nines muses and LaCroix shifts in his seat uncomfortably.

"I don’t what else you'd like me to say," he says, Nines just gives him a look. 

"Maybe I just think you need to squirm a bit."

LaCroix's irritation is rather quick to spike, and Nines knows he's becoming adept at calling it out. He knows LaCroix always rises to the occasion and watches as he can't hold back his responding snips, "Perhaps you need to choke me one more time to get it out of your system?"

Nines barks a laugh at that and quirks an eyebrow at him, "Is that a thing for you?"

The look LaCroix gives him is completely unamused, "I'll work on the MacNiels. Goodbye, Rodriguez."

Nines stand up to leave, "Did you sass people this much when you were Camarilla? I don't know how you lasted."

"I didn't, obviously."

Nines hums, amused.

Before turning to leave he reminds him once more, "I'm serious though. Don't forget what I said."

They part to do their work then, and Nines thinks this might work if they can keep this distance. 

* * *

As with their initial meeting, it becomes difficult to think of LaCroix when he's thrown back into the thick of things. When he does, he finds he has to find new ways to catalog this different LaCroix, out of his suit and more tired and desperate. He comes to no conclusions that make sense, but it barely matters when things start going to hell.

There's a car bomb - a poorly made one which seemed to be their only saving grace. Nines isn't there that night, held up trying to cut them a good deal for more ammo supply, but he's there to survey the aftermath in a crowded Hollywood motel room. Damsel took the brunt of it, pushing Skelter away in milliseconds of instinctual reaction, is what he's told. It's only circumstances and luck that he wasn't there too.

They've shifted the room into a makeshift gurney. They have a street medic working on Damsel, putting pieces of her broken arm back into place - James, the Brujah, and a thin-blood he doesn't know, are holding her down in place, all hoping this isn't going to end in a poorly-timed frenzy.

He's upset, the kind of consuming rage that comes from one of your own getting hurt. His nails are gripping so hard into his palm he's surprised he hasn't drawn blood. They have Damsel biting down on a piece of cloth her lipstick smudged but face determined to withstand the pain as they stitch her up. Tough as nails, he knows, but he struggles with controlling how it affects him. He wants to move forward, offer comfort or help in some way but he's pulled back by Skelter, who with a tilt of his head gestures him out of the room.

He follows along reluctantly but keeps his eyes on Damsel till the door shuts.

"Nines, some shit is going on."

"You're telling me."

"No man, it's like…" he trails off and looks around as if someone might be listening. It snaps Nines out of his despair quickly, and he trusts Skelter's words like few others so he leans in close.

He pulls Skelter down the hallway to attempt to speak more privately.

"What's up?"

"You weren't there, but the car that got blown up? Brand fucking new. I traded it in yesterday, switched the plates…Damsel and I have been switching safe houses twice a week, everything we could to keep our tracks clean. Someone…knew where we were gonna be. Or was following us. It's the only thing that makes sense."

"Fuck," Nines says.

"Yeah, fuck is right," Skelter says, crossing his arms and looking every bit as shaken as Nines feels.

"If you think we have a mole…I trust you." Nines says, attempting to start making sense of it despite all the worst-case scenarios that present themselves so clearly to him.

LaCroix, he thinks. A thought that feels right and wrong at the same time and is accompanied by a sinking feeling of the heaviest kind of guilt: that it might have been his judgment call that they were reaping. It's an immediate conclusion.

"Hey…your face is getting deadly serious, brother. What are you thinking?"

"That this might be my fault."

Skelter opens his mouth to say something, but they're interrupted by the motel door slamming open, "We need another pair of hands in here!"

Skelter looks between Nines and the medic but Nines puts a hand on Skelter's shoulder, "You go, I need to double-check the things on my ends."

He nods in understanding and they part ways, Nines gritting his teeth to the sound pained and desperate arguing he was leaving behind.

* * *

Nines shows up at LaCroix's apartment unannounced, making it to Santa Monica in record time from Hollywood, propelled by the dual forces of uncertainty and hurt. He takes the stairs up to curb the anxious energy and knocks on the door with three resounding knocks. The second LaCroix opens, Nines pushes him through with significant force, a hand sprawled against his chest to push him back inside.

LaCroix is all wide-eyed and suddenly, they're back in an alleyway. LaCroix tries to hold his ground this time - not in the same battle of dominance way that it had been back then, but instead now his hands shoot up to hold Nines back, to deescalate.

Manage to salvage whatever normalcy they had reached.

"Have you been working with anyone else?"

"What? No -"

"I need you to be fucking honest with me, LaCroix -"

"I am being honest," LaCroix insists, and Nines tries to find truth to parse.

"That's...really hard for me to believe," Nines says, brought forth into the moment unclear of the exact shape of his emotions, other than the anger.

LaCroix's eyes keep darting, unable to keep his eye contact for more than a second before shooting behind him, off the side. There have been many lies made in fear, Nines thinks, but LaCroix's desperation seems to come from confusion. 

"What happened?" LaCroix says, as Nines hands fist into his shirt. 

"Car bomb. Someone's been tipping off the MacNiels to our movements," he replies, wants to gauge LaCroix's reaction as the severity of the situation begins to reveal itself. 

LaCroix's posture stiffens, his brows furrow and frown worsens, "You think I did it." It's not a question. 

Nines lets the accusation hang. 

"Well, I didn't," LaCroix says, "I was there with you when the MacNiels attacked you. They were shooting at me as well."

"It wouldn't be the most convoluted attempt at betrayal you've tried," Nines says, "You had been following me."

"Yes," LaCroix says petulant, "I have been. If I wanted to get rid of you then I would have done so much more successfully."

Nines pushes him back, letting go of his shirt with a disbelieving laugh, "You couldn't do so before, why would you be able to now?"

"I sent you to get mauled by werewolves," LaCroix says deadpan, "Trust me I when I say it was not my methods that were lacking, you were...an outlier."

Nines rages is a low boil, that teeters over the edge. Those wounds still felt raw, raw and validating. 

"That's why," LaCroix continues after a swallow, "Is why I know not to try again."

Nines sulks, turns away from LaCroix to sit down as his couch, considering. LaCroix follows but stays standing with crossed arms. 

"Let me help," he says. 

He's glowering when he responds, "You're still a suspect."

"It's going to get worse."

It's the principle of the thing, that makes Nines short-tempered to LaCroix's pragmaticism, that makes Nines rethink their alliance on the daily. It's only week one, and it seems they can't get anything done without a fight - they are both exposed nerves, frayed with the tension of barely go out in public without the acute risk of being spotted. LaCroix, to keep the secret of his survival, and Nines, with a price on his head by his own rival Anarchs.

It was a shitty situation exacerbated by the slow pace of Nines' forgiveness. Trust can't be forced and forgiveness was like the acceptance of grief - the process of moving on happened independently, with little respect for one's own wishes, and there was no part of Nines that felt ready to accept LaCroix.

And either way, this feels like an argument treading into old territory and Nines is tired.

"Listen, I've had the whole city screaming in my ear this past week and I'm not ready to trust you. I don't think I ever can, not when you Camarilla types only ever care about your own hides."

LaCroix tenses but Nines knows by the way his brow furrowed he won't be able to hold back whatever mean-spirited thought he's been nursing since this interaction started.

"If you have a mole among your ranks, I wouldn’t be surprised if they're involved in the MacNeil's growing drug business at that kind of thing can be traced, if you simply work with me."

LaCroix is speaking faster, wound up and upset, "Steel yourself a bit more, for God's sake, you've been at this far too long to be so naïve."

"Naive? Naïve would be handing sensitive information about my allies over to the guy who put a fucking blood hunt on my head."

Nines stands, gripping his fist so hard he thinks his fingernails may break skin. 

LaCroix looks equally as angry as him, his old mask of diplomacy abandoned along with his old life. He opens his mouth to dig his grave further and Nines stops him with a raised hand, "Don't."

He turns around, and walks away, leaving LaCroix to stew in the anger. 

There was no way this was going to work out.

* * *

There's a safehouse they have on the Eastside, a one-bedroom apartment with no view. Out of the way and forgettable, it served their purposes, though all it bought Nines were memories of being hunted and isolated, and of too many nights on a lumpy queen mattress on laminate flooring.

They might as well buy a headboard, with how often he ends up here. It's the same as last time, but different. The MacNiels having a grudge isn't the same as Camarilla laws so he's just being overly cautious, and keeping things on the down-low makes it more difficult for a headhunt, but it's not a highly kept secret.

The fledgling called him this time, asked for the address and showed up on his front step with a few bags of blood to keep in the fridge and with the intent to plop down on his couch. She had been angry about the outcome with LaCroix, though Nines had strategically obfuscated several details, the first ten minutes of her arrival had been her poking and prodding at him. She hurled pointed accusations fast and angry but rationalized them just as quickly before coming to terms with the immovableness of Nines once he had decided on something.

Yeah, he was angry at LaCroix right now, but he wasn't trying to throw away resources when he running on a scarcity. 

So they settle down for the night on the ratty old couch, Nines on his laptop (brand new, since everything was online these nights) with Lenore next to him. She sat crossed legged, her skirt pooling around her in layers of synthetic silk and her glasses slipping off the bridge of her nose. She was keeping up a balancing act with a notebook on her left knee, with one hand poised to write and the other flipping through TV channels in quick succession with a remote Nines hasn't seen in months.

She stops on a news channel, where two plastic announcers prattle away about the latest of Los Angeles' violent penny dreadfuls. It's all sensationalism and Nines doesn't stomach it, but he can't tell whether or not Lenore actually wants to listen to it or just wants the white noise. He can deal with background static so he settles down to work.

Work being emails, mostly. There's correspondence from Jeanette, a pleading declaration of loyalty and claims of information her sister doesn't want the Anarchs to have. It feels hollow and he treats it as such before moving onto a detailed update from Skelter about a Sabbat warehouse and an email from Isaac Abrams asking Nines for a quick check-in on the MacNiels situation.

It's all expected enough not to be exciting, but as he's scrolling the page refreshes to show something new and unread at the top of his feed - from a generic untraceable name but Nines instinctually knows who it's from regardless.

LaCroix's email is arriving three days since the last time they saw each other, with no apology or even a mention of their parting argument. It's avoidantly diplomatic with little else but a document attached, filled with names and addresses that Nines can immediately pick out as MacNiels and some others that he can't. There's a couple of connections he hadn't put together before, but seeing them all listed together is revealing if the information is true.

He leans back into the couch and sighs, Nines can see the peace offering for what it is - an olive branch for when LaCroix doesn't want to concede on a point. It's good if it's accurate, Nines can admit that much even if he's still sore about it all. His mind works quickly and starts jumping fast on how to get confirmation.

Meanwhile, Lenore has picked up the remote again, obviously not impressed by the 24-hour news cycle.

"Why don't you have cable?" she asks, with a great show of being put off with an exasperated huff.

"Why would I pay for cable? I'm here like twice a week."

"Bertram told me he can hook up that stuff real cheap," she says, looking back at him with a quirked brow.

"I don't watch that much TV. Kid," Nines starts before the fledgling can burst into a rant about his lack of TV habits and the direction of media in the 21st century, "How busy are you these next couple of days?"

"Well, you don't have cable so not that busy," she says resigned, "What's your angle?"

He hands her the laptop with the document LaCroix sent open and watches her face as she starts to reconstruct the same pieces he did.

"There are a lot of jumps here," she starts, "I mean, I suspected the MacNiels were hiding some kind of money-laundering operation for a while but…definitely not on this scale."

Her head shoots up and she looks at Nines, as if something else much uglier had clicked, "Is this from LaCroix?"

The anger she keeps rises back up to the surface quick, "I thought you told him to fuck off."

"I did," he replies easily, "He emailed this to me. There are a few places I can check out on my own but the pawnshop and bar downtown? I think you can get closer to that than me. If we can prove this is how they've been hiding their drug money trail…I'm sure their newbies aren't getting their fair share and public opinions can change real quick. Use it to track it down. "

"You could figure out how to cut off their income too," Lenore says in pained understanding. She shoves the computer back to him and breaks her eye contact in frustration, "It could also just be a trap, you know. Maybe he's just leading you into the wolf's den! Trying to get rid of you."

"Maybe," Nines concedes and is strangely unbothered it, "If he wants to get rid of me he's going to have to try harder. I'm the one that knows where he lives."

It's an attempt to lighten the mood, but Lenore's face is deadly serious. Nines thinks, if she knew where to find him, LaCroix wouldn't have a chance to run or talk his way out of it. It's easy to forget among her banter and neutrality how tightly she holds her grudges and loyalties both, close to her chest.

"Will you do it?" he asks, and sees her wavering so he quickly amends, "I'm asking because I trust you, and I can't say that for a lot of people."

She flinches when the words hit, she leans away, brows furrowed as if being tasked with something of shattering gravity.

"You know what you're doing, huh?" Lenore says, avoiding eye contact and picking up the remote again to fiddle with it, making her way through the pitiful amount of channels.

_You're too easy sometimes_ , he thinks. For all her apparent pragmaticism, for all the favors she traded in and people she used - there lied her downfall. She got caught in her own webs.

"Do you think LaCroix's going to fall for that? The Rodriguez charm?" she says.

He tries to smile at her, to play dumb, "You think I'm charming?"

It’s too hollow a sell.

"Ha, ha, ha," she says sarcastically, poking him in between the ribs, "Don't deflect. LaCroix won't be moved so easily by things like 'rhetoric' or 'decency' or like, the back and forth of human companionship."

"I'm not trying to make him my friend," Nines insists, "I'm not trying to recruit him either."

She hums thoughtfully, "So threats of violence only? No appeals to his better nature?"

"None," he confirms, "Will you check it out?"

Lenore let out an exaggerated groan, finally throwing the remote down to settle on Public Access programming

"You're relentless," she says, "I'm still repaying my life debts so yes, but I'm not happy about it. I’m expecting you to be extra generous concerning whatever favors I might ask this next month."

"I'm always generous."

"Yeah, and an opportunist."

Nines just shrugs, "Two things can be true."

"Yeah, yeah," Lenore says, turning sideways to rest her legs on Nines' lap, "Just give me the address."

* * *

"I've been going stir-crazy, sitting here all useless," Damsel says, "I know a lot of the recruits, I could have helped out.

"We need you at 100% Damsel," Nines assures her.

"Plus," Skelter says sitting down on the bed next to her, "You didn't miss too much. Nines had this one covered."

Her eyebrows raise suspiciously, eyes squinted animatedly, "Apparently but I still don't trust this source you're keeping from us."

Nines gives a small sorry smile and thinks she would trust him even less if she knew who the source actually was. He would regret it if the information was no good but luckily -

"I looked into it myself. Lenore can back me up," He says and reaches into his leather jacket out the evidence he folded up inside.

"It's all money trails," he explains, handing it over so each of them can get a chance to inspect them, let them connect the dots of laundering and payments and hidden bases.

"Payments their making in cash, obviously in cash, on a schedule," Nines says, "All it took was just - waiting it out."

"Damn," Skelter says, "So caught in the act?"

Nines nods while Damsel lets out a groan at the paper, "Man, these guys are shit at covering their tracks," she comments.

"Have you confronted this guy yet, James, you said? I barely remember the kid," Skelter says.

"No," Nines says, "I want to keep tailing him and see if he leads us to anyone else. "

"Good thinking…I also think the three of us need to start being more tight-lipped about everything," Skelter nods.

"You two are the ones who talk too much. You'll blabber to any random ghoul who'll listen," Damsel says.

He raises his eyebrows and shrugs - she was right.

Skelter laughs, "We'll watch it. I somehow doubt this is the last leak we have to worry about…I'm also looking into a couple of things on the Sabbat side, so hopefully I'll find something new to report.

Damsel hums, "Righteous."

Here Nines can't help but take in the sight of them, of Damsel with her arms back into complete pieces, moving with what Nines can observe to be the minimal soreness of healing.

He sighs, "It's good to see you up."

Damsel blinks, caught off guard, but then it shifts into a bashful smile, "Aw quit it, old man. It wasn't a big deal."

His smiles to her are given freely, "I know, you're a tough one to beat."

She rolls her shoulders, sitting up straighter in the bed, "You got to get back at that piece of shit Nines. Let the MacNiels that that isn't going to fly around here."

"True that," Skelter agrees, "and now that you're off bed rest you can go back to pulling your weight again."

Damsel takes the pillow from behind and swings it at him to the sound of his laughter.

* * *

Nines follows James around for two more nights. There's nothing extremely suspicious - Just petty things like selling drugs to kine, feeding and hanging around the Last Round in a way Nines now saw as nefarious. It angers him to think he hung around them so long, so often vocal in his opinions and support that it makes Nines seethe. All he can do is make note of the people close to him but he quickly realizes he'll get nothing more specific without approaching him. So he plans his strike and confrontation for the following evening that he is sure is payday.

In his car, he makes a decision he had been nursing through the entire process of it. He calls LaCroix, the image of him submissive and not submissive all at once and vivid in his mind as the dial tone rings. Of course, he thinks of him, his dirty secret.

"Rodriguez," starts the curt accent that answers him, "I assume you were able to confirm my information."

It's straight to business, but even over the phone Nines can catch the undercurrents of relief that tinge his voice.

"I did, and it led me straight to our mole. You busy tonight?"

He imagines the way LaCroix's jaw locks with tension, the way he now knows it always does when he thinks of how best to reply to Nines.

"What do you need of me?" he says, transactional.

"Come with me," Nines says. A test of sorts, again, put forth by a need to see exactly how far LaCroix was willing to take this. Now more than ever he feels the high risk, high reward edge of their relationship - too much is at stake to let someone he doesn't know possibly throw it all away. The information was good and he needs to know when commitment and convenience eventually dry up.

"Alright..." Lacroix says, "Will you pick me up?"

"In twenty," he confirms before hanging up.

LaCroix waits for him in the lobby of the apartment building, dressed down for his standards, a casual blue jacket covering his collared shirt. Nines forces himself not to be overly amused by it.

"Ready?" Nines says.

"I'll admit I wasn't expecting you to ask me along."

"Neither was I," Nines says, hones, "Will you back me up if it comes to that?"

LaCroix tenses and Nines spots it in his jaw.

"'Tis our agreement, is it not?"

Nines nods and sizes him up. The drive is quiet up until he parks across the street from the dry cleaners - one of the many fronts they now knew the MacNiels were using.

"I usually wait in that restaurant on the corner," he says, "In case they recognize the car but -"

He shrugs - he won't need this front much longer. LaCroix nods in understanding. Like clockwork, James walks out of the shop, looking over his shoulders with a distinctly guilty air before ducking down a nearby street.

"Let's go," Nines says and LaCroix gives a quick nod of agreement before following him out of the car. Nines don't think they've been seen, so they keep a brisk pace to shadow. They linger behind, helpfully obscured by crowded streets. LaCroix keeps his head down and a step behind him.

When James turns a corner, into an alleyway, Nines makes eye contact with LaCroix - an agreement to act. There's the anticipation of action and Nines steels himself, split seconds of decisions as he always does before a confrontation. Preparation for the worst and stepping into the role that was required of him.

They find James at the end of an alleyway, somehow having already talked a prostitute into baring her throat.

"Hey James," Nines greets.

The boy's head shoots up, eyes widening in recognition but attempting to play it cool, hands shooting to his pockets in an attempt to appear casual.

"Hey...haha, what are you doing here?"

James' eyes flash to LaCroix but there's no recognition, only fear from the situation he has caught himself in. The woman with him is dazed, a trickle of blood dripping down her neck and in between his teeth there's already red stain.

"Well, I was in the neighborhood," Nines starts all faux casual and forcing his way into the other guy's space, "Maybe you can explain to me why you've been coming here, twice a week, to a place we now know is just a front for the MacNiels to wash money."

His face pales.

Nines wonders if LaCroix can easily see the similarities between this fear response and his own. James shuffles on his feet but doesn't take a step back yet.

"What are you talking about?" he tries unsuccessfully.

Nines shakes his head, "Let's just keep this easy James, and just come clean."

His eyes wildly dart between Nines and LaCroix as if he might find some out before coming up blank.

"It's not...what it looks like...." he says with ringing hollowness as he slowly takes itching steps back, steps which Nines follows evenly. It's in a movement too quick to catch, James pulls the human woman in front of him, holding her by the neck.

"I know you hate when civies die, Nines," He tenses in the truth, but before he can even respond Laoix laughs, cruel and ringing.

"Holding a kine as your hostage? You must be joking."

There's crucial hesitation from James and LaCroix doesn't stop, "Do it then, kindred, and then perhaps you can tell us what you were hoping to accomplish."

If it's a bluff it's a perfect one that James believes, that Nines believes too. He doesn't doubt that it's an accurate reflection of LaCroix's feelings for the living but regardless it suits their purposes and James throws the woman down to the ground before taking off running.

It isn't much of a chase. Nines is older and faster with a celerity long honed and he catches him by the collar before he can even make it a couple of feet. Nines has him face-first into a wall in five seconds flat, held firm.

"Please, please -"

"Start talking," Nines says.

He says nothing, just continues to gasp, nostrils flared, and in a final display of willpower, he twists his arm out of Nines grasp to try to pull a gun out of his jacket, which falls uselessly to the ground.

"Goddamn, just give it up," Nines says, pressing him closer to the wall, but the kid is resisting with the last of his energy and it's taking all of Nines strength to keep him in place. Nothing like a kindred afraid and fighting for their life.

It's in the struggle, with James trying to buck back and away, that the gun on the ground gets kicked. LaCroix picks it up as it comes his way and looks upon the scene curiously.

"C'mon, blondie. I don't know what your deal is but the MacNiels will pay big money if you help me out, ah! -"

His voice devolves it a pained squeak where Nines presses his elbow into his back.

There's a moment then where Nines' eyes meet LaCroix's, steady and challenging with the gun between them. Wordless seconds of communication that hang still and strained.

"They're paying me lots...They'll pay you too, I'll vouch," James keeps rambling but LaCroix's eyes never leave Nines.

He walks towards them through James' pained gasps until he's right next to Nines and a hand reaches out to his waist. Eyes clear and steady as LaCroix slips the gun into his belt. LaCroix stepping away feels like letting a breath of air out of his lungs.

Nines forces himself to look back at James and says, "I'll take that as a confession. Now would be the time to start listing names."

"Fuck you!" James spits.

"He'll go easy on you if you cooperate," LaCroix says rather disinterestedly.

Nines smirks, "That's true."

"Okay, okay. Just...just don't kill me, man, I'll get out of the city," he starts begging, and in quick succession, names start dropping off his tongue. Many are things they already know but there is the name of a thinblood, the location of a base, that Nines knows they will use. The guy falls to his feet once Nines stops holding him up.

"Finish your business in LA tonight. I don't want to see you around here."

James' eyes widen, and Nines knows he had already imagined a future where Nines would have hanged him by his throat, made an example of his public execution. Luckily for him, that wasn't the kind of statement Nines was looking to make. He sits there stunned for only a few more seconds before Nines steps forward, "C'mon scram."

The kid takes his mercy and runs, leaving Nines and LaCroix alone.

"I wouldn't have left him alive," LaCroix says and it derails him.

"He's just a dumb kid," Nines starts angrily defending, "He was just embraced and you know how it is, he probably won't even last till the end of the year. I'm in no hurry to get him there."

LaCroix's face is stony and unreadable as he talks.

"Besides, if I stuck to your logic, you wouldn't even be here," Nines continues.

LaCroix breaks his eye contact then, fixing his gaze on some inconsequential point off in the distance.

"Were our positions reversed, we could have never come to this arrangement," he says and it angers Nines to have it said so blatantly.

"For christ's sake, you don't do yourself any favors," Nines says, rubbing a hand across his face, "You don't have to remind me. Last time we did this on your terms it ended with me wrestling a fucking werewolf."

He turns his back on LaCroix to where the kine woman still lay unconscious. He checks her pulse, still steady, and pulls out a bandana from his back pocket to wipe the blood off her neck.

As he does, he keeps ranting, "Mind you, I won that shit, and don’t think it’s not a hell of a sore spot. It was good to see your office go up in flames after that, well fucking deserved."

He's angering himself now too, thinking about. Rolling it around in his head until he gets more frustrated and more confused.

"You're a back-stabbing piece of shit. And the more and more I think about it...the less sense this all makes," Nines says as he moves the women into a more comfortable position before standing up.

"What the hell are you doing here, LaCroix? What the hell are you not telling me?" he asks, and no longer has the energy to summon anger, "What am I missing?"

LaCroix looks up at him, nose up-turned frustratingly high and prideful despite the situation.

"My situation is perhaps more complicated...or rather more dire than on," LaCroix admits.

Nines sighs, he knew there had to be more to it. He nods, a gesture for him to continue.

LaCroix's lips purse in hesitance but he does so, "I have little to no access to any money from my previous life. Much was tied up in my company's bonds and stocks which were immediately bought up at the time of my death."

Nines raises an eyebrow at him, not understanding.

"It was bought up by Carson Gill."

He tumbles with the name until it clicks, "The guy from San Fransico?"

"He's always hated me," LaCroix says in a spike of vitriol, "It's no surprise that he would swoop in the second after my death in some sort of...symbolic ransack. I can't even attempt to sell my properties without raising suspicions and I've been surviving off my accounts tied to alternate names and such, but..."

His lips are down-turned into something petulant and Nines scoffs, "So revenge? Getting your money back?"

"I'd settle for either," is LaCroix's deadly serious reply.

"You know, that probably puts me more at ease than anything else you've already told me," Nines says.

LaCroix nods as if this makes perfect sense, "As you can see I have a particularly personal interest in foiling the Camarilla's attempts to move back into Los Angeles."

It's all so petty, ridiculously petty and he thinks kindred will always find ways to busy themselves. But he can work with this, considering he had bought LaCroix looking for a reason to cut this liability out of his life. He still isn't sure it won't happen next time or at least very soon.

"Still think I shouldn't have let him go?"

"You'll be disappointed if you wait around for my change of heart."

Nines sighs and starts digging through his pockets for his keys, "Just saying. Whatever you've been doing so far hasn't been working so great, maybe it's time to try a new approach," Nines says though before Lacroix can voice any complaints he gestures back the way they came.

"Don't say it. I'll drive you home."


	2. a warm gun

LaCroix's new life had been accompanied by an acute feeling of displacement, one that refused to divorce itself from him even as months passed. Not that Los Angeles has ever suited him, nor cared for him - it was a city that had looked upon his demise with a face of disinterest.

Anonymity is foreign to one accustomed to power and he isn't used to walking a city's streets with no intention of being known, but it was there his current strength lied. Information was gathered easier when there was no one to expect to you, but the burden of maintaining a life shrouded kept him at a constant tension.

Nines Rodriguez kept him at a constant tension. It's an unsteady ground from which they had begun building their alliance - no, LaCroix thinks, it is generous to describe a gaping chasm as unsteady. The absence of trust is felt keenly in all their interactions, no matter how frequent they were becoming, and LaCroix always felt the heightened awareness of having to prove his worth.

It had left him more skittish than usual, to say the least, and the street corner he stood on to wait for Nines left him feeling exposed, the way a self-conscious adolescent feels all eyes must be on them. He was afraid of running into another kindred who recognized him, as there was no shortage of those who wished him ill.

His hands tucked are angrily into his coat - he wants to fidget, but it's unbecoming - and Nines is late. It's a pattern he's come to expect, but LaCroix wonders if wanted to leave him there uncomfortable on the less-than-pristine downtown street. Two different women had approached him over five minutes, giving up after he began projecting a more firmly uninterested presence. It wasn't a situation he would have ever put himself in while he was Prince, he thinks with irritation, a sign of how drastic were the changing times.

Nines' car approached after another minute passed and LaCroix wasted no time in letting himself into the passenger seat as soon as he was close enough.

"You're late," he says with the clear intent to reprimand, before getting hit by the unmistakable smell of blood.

"I got caught up with something," he says, fiddling with the radio as he drives instead of paying any attention to him.

Now looking closely, he can see the dark rust color staining the stark white of his undershirt, and camouflaging down into the dark wash of his jeans.

"What happened?" LaCroix demands - as if he wasn't tense enough.

Nines shrugs him off, obviously not in a mood to talk about it.

LaCroix feels the urge to squabble senselessly and fails to resist it. "Well, I told you before, I don't like to be out longer than necessary. It's a miracle no one's sighted me thus far and I'd like to keep it that way."

He was, in fact, highly meticulous about it, with a constant moving between safe houses and covering of virtual tracks, avoiding any interactions with bank accounts that might draw attention.

"No one knows to look for you, that's why they won't see you. We love to write off people we've decided are dead," Nines says, brows furrowed but LaCroix suspects his irritation is more at the stuck radio buttons than at him.

He thinks back to tabloids he sees on street corner newsstands - every few months claiming either Elvis or John F. Kennedy or whoever else was still alive and enjoying their new life incognito. That's the logic, isn't it? People discard the impossible. Once someone has fallen out of the public consciousness there may be a chance for invisibility. It's how Kindred can manage to survive in the same city where they once died. 

Well, in his case it's a bit insulting and not quite enough assurance for him. He thinks the isolation of his new life is getting to him in more ways than one.

"Still, there's no point in risking it," he says ultimately. 

Nines lets out a satisfied sigh as he finds the station he seemed to be looking for and old rock music fills the car, one with a steady beat and a deep bass.

"If it bothers you so much buy a hat. Or some glasses."

LaCroix wishes Nines' eyes weren't fixed on the road so that he could see his unamused expression. At least someone was in a good mood.

The rest of the drive back to LaCroix's apartment, which had become a sort of pseudo-base of operations for them since the Anarch Haven was out of the question, was done in silence. The intimacy of Nines knowing how to get there so easily was equal parts unsettling and threatening, though nothing had gone wrong yet he waited for the mistake to show itself.

It wasn't until they were in the elevator that LaCroix realized any kine that they might have ran into would see the crime that still stained Nines clothes. He still lived here for god's sake.

Well. At least it was late.

When they enter, Nines moves with a practiced familiarity through the apartment, throwing his keys and wallet on the counter before heading into the living room.

"Clean yourself up before you sit," he says quickly, "I'm not spending my evening trying to remove your blood from my couch."

Nines looks back with an amused grin, somehow not nearly as spiteful as he's used to, "It's not my blood."

He rolls his eyes, "I'll bring you another shirt."

Though there's no way his usual clothes would ever fit Nines, the man's frame unmistakably wider than his in every respect, he manages an undershirt a couple of sizes too big for him to lend, all while mentally cataloging the things they should discuss tonight. He had a finalized list of suspect properties, had intercepted news of an event in Los Angeles he suspected will have considerable Camarilla presence, and he needed to hear how Nines' had handled the lastest Sabbat debacle -

He thinks perhaps he should have written all that down, as his thoughts were utterly derailed by the sight of a naked back, all firm muscle and a waist stained with blood. Nines stood over his kitchen sink, a wet rag to wipe down his torso.

LaCroix has been kindred for 200 years, and few things phase him anymore in tragedy and sex, far too jaded by living among the undead and feeding upon the living. That is to say, nudity does not, and should not, phase LaCroix. Such shames wither away once too much time passes, the way one grows out of most juvenile anxieties.

And yet, seeing Nines Rodriguez's bare chest catches him staunchly off-guard. He loathes to admit how difficult it becomes to remain casual, but seeing exactly how fit Nines was - really it wasn't quite fair, was it? He can't keep his eyes from trailing down to a light dusting of body hair gave way to a dark happy trail, deeply masculine in a way LaCroix finds undeniably attractive.

He files the thought away in his mind to be forgotten and hopefully never revisited.

"It was the Sabbat," Nines says as he approaches.

"Of course," he sighs, the information guiding his mind back to the task at hand, "I assume you didn't have any problems?"

"Worked out better than expected, they were the ones that jumped us but after we killed them we got a trio of newbies coming up to us and surrendering. Said they had heard of me and wanted to join up with the Anarchs. I think I had killed their boss, they seemed eager to get out, so I'm suspecting they were the most recent mass embrace."

Nines often left LaCroix speechless, with how easy recruits seemed to fall out of the sky and into his lap. It's easy when the man lives up to his legend and inspirational rhetoric came to Nines like a mother tongue. The weight of his charisma was often overwhelming to exist adjacent to.

"That's good," LaCroix says carefully, lest he betrays his awe.

"Their numbers are teetering off, they can't embrace fast enough to keep up with how quickly their foot soldiers are dying or abandoning," Nines continues, "I think it might be time to start going after the leadership."

"No," he says quickly, "It's too soon, we still don't know who supplying their weapons." It feels reckless, to go in not knowing anything.

"Well I'm getting a bit tired of getting ambushed every week, desperation is making those fuckers way too bold," he says, "Skelter had scoped out a warehouse where he saw some activity last week. You should come check it out with me."

LaCroix stops, not since their first week together had Nines asked him to go along on any kind of raid or surveillance run. They mostly did their tasks independently and checked back in with each other every few days. It's a strangely promising prospect.

Nines looks away from him to wring the rag he was washing with out over the sink.

"Perhaps I will join you then," he replies and skims over Nines with an attempt at casualness. "Also, you missed a spot. On your back," he points.

Nines holds up the dirty rag to him with a sharp eyebrow raised and daring, "You wanna get it?"

LaCroix scoffs tossing the undershirt onto the counter for him. He changes into it with a laugh at LaCroix's attitude. 

The rest of the night goes unusually smooth from there; LaCroix gets to give Nines his many print-outs and gets to explain in painstaking detail the patterns of confirmed Camarilla investment in the city and answers all of the man's pointed questions in turn.

"There's a few I can handle on my own, sabotaging a business isn't difficult. Others, however, may require more deliberate use of force…"

"Like what?"

"Well, if the establishment is no longer standing…"

"What, arson?"

LaCroix gives an innocent shrug, "Perhaps. Are you opposed?",  he says to which Nines huffs another laugh.

It all feels highly successful and efficient and when Nines leaves him for the night he gets to bask in a sense of completion. This was what he was good at after all. 

It's taken a lot of effort on both their parts to arrive at this point, at this point where they can navigate each other with greater ease, where the night can end with no death threats or anything of the like. 

In a self-congratulatory spree, he moves back into the kitchen for a blood-pack he had on reserve when he finds the stained shirt Nines left. He stops, picks up the soft fabric which was cool to the touch. Even worn by Nines' all night, kindred run so cold there would be no way for him to feel any residual warmth. Still, it does little to stop his mind from conjuring up a connection between fabric and bare skin.

He throws the shirt into the trash and denies the feeling of disappointment attempting to take root.

* * *

It's a testament to the state of his life that he awaits the date with something akin to excitement. He's not interacting with fellow kindred nearly enough these days - something he never thought he'd miss - and he's quickly become addicted to the rush of adrenaline that comes with successful encounters with Nines Rodriguez. A risk paid off always came with a sort of pleasure, and this still rang true in this exercise more than most.

Nines picks him up, as usual, and the fact that it has become usual still feels ill-fitted, false. He's hesitant to claim it, like it may be snatched away should he acknowledge it all, so he does so only privately. It's a forced aloofness that he approaches it with, lest he reveals how much he revels in it. He likes courting danger it seems, likes bad odds, and when Nines appraises him as he slips into the passenger seat he feels a familiar rush.

"You ready for some sleuthing?" Nines asks.

"I'll admit when you invited me I wasn't sure what you had in mind."

Nines gives him a crooked smirk as he starts driving.

"There's a place not far out from the airport. A warehouse that's been teeming with Sabbat activity. Skelter's been watching it the past week, but they started recognizing him and drove him off. Told him I'd give it go with the map and info he gave," Nines explains, nodding toward a file sitting on the dashboard that LaCroix takes the opportunity to look through.

"They talked to him?" LaCroix asks.

"Most bottom-tier shovelheads don't know enough about LA politics to recognize us."

"They'd recognize you though," LaCroix muses.

"That's where you come in."

That makes LaCroix turn his head, "Me?"

Nines looks at him with an amused quirk of his brow.

"I'm not sure I want to test out your 'dead is anonymous' theory in such a risky scenario," LacCroix responds with no attempt to hide his unease. It's a quick spiral that begins with the thought that perhaps Nines has finally decided to get rid of him, and this was the convoluted way he was deciding to bring about his end.

As if sensing the minuscule increase in tension Nines starts, "I'll stick around if anything goes wrong, obviously, but Skelter assured me the base is all newbies and ghouls, and with how fast the Sabbat's been churning out new foot soldiers I wouldn't be surprised if most of these guys weren't even around _ then _ ."

He's still unconvinced and pleads with Nines in a pointed look. Such is what he's come to.

Nines keeps talking, "I think you could show up, do your confident in-charge, act -"

"Act -"

"Trick them into thinking the Archbishop sent you, get a hold of their shipping manifestos and -"

It all suddenly clicks in LaCroix's head.

"The Camarilla arms supplier? You think we can find proof there?"

"I think so. A lot of cargo has been moving in and out of there. I don't know if it's gonna be the Camarilla connection you think it is but.." he stops there, with a roll of his shoulders where he keeps his hands relaxed on the steering wheel.

LaCroix has to make a conscious effort not to overthink it all. He knew Nines had still been skeptical of his information and yet, he still afforded him this opportunity to prove himself yet again. It always feels like a test. A bonding exercise maybe but Nines says nothing further and allows him to go over the names and descriptions committed to paper that paint a picture of a mismanaged base and numerous masquerade violations.

When he has the majority of the information memorized, he sees by his watch almost a full hour has passed with Nines driving them to Los Angeles' outskirts. The road would be pitch black were it not for the highway lights - they're close to the ocean. The radio has been playing the whole time, Nines humming along quietly to the songs that go by. It's the same kind of old rock he always seems to listen to; the soft voice of a female lead serenading away against the backdrop of a melancholic acoustic guitar. His eyes, somehow starker in the dark, were concentrated solely on the road ahead.

It's difficult not to look at him with an appraising eye, putting together all the parts of him that make him both so handsome and capable alike. He's caught staring and Nines shoots him a quizzical expression. He breaks the eye contact, despite the submissiveness of the act.

Nines coughs awkwardly, "We're almost there. I'm going to park a few blocks away but I'll show you the perimeter. We also have to coordinate a plan."

Right, he thinks, this is his opportunity.

" Skelter mentioned there's this one guy who they keep as sort of an intermediary leader since most of the muscle here is mostly human or mass embrace mutts," Nines says to prompt him.

LaCroix hums, "Yes, I don't think it would be a bad idea for me to ask to speak to him directly. Give myself an air of authority, as if I'm there to supervise the shipment."

Nines nods in agreement, "I'm thinking I'm going to follow you in. Keeping an eye on things and provide a distraction if we need to get out."

"A distraction?"

"Well, I found a few grenades..."

LaCroix can't help the laugh that slips out, "Well, if it works."

Nines lips quirk up too, but LaCroix catches how he bites it down, "I know what I'm doing," Nines assures and he says it with a strength of purpose that's singular to him. It's in all their interactions that LaCroix can pierce this together. No Camarilla Prince would be caught getting his hands so dirty and taking responsibility so directly. It is just so that Nines would never take such an empty title.

He muses the thought with some resentment, mostly towards himself, and tries to quell it for the peace of the moment. 

They agree on a final meeting point, where they park the car. They part ways after walking together until the warehouse comes into view. LaCroix, despite all the information provided, still feels like he's walking in blind. He can make out the areas Skelter marked out on the map, but it still feels inadequate.

Well, if there's anything LaCroix has become accustomed to doing it's walking into a place and pretending to be something he's not. It's incredible what a lot of confidence, and a little bit of dominate, can make people believe.

The first sabbat he encounters, luckily for him, aren't even kindred. He's unsure if they're even ghouls, or are just being paid. But the one that approaches him is armed, gun at his side and looks ready to pull it out at the sight of anything.

"I'm Sabbat," he lies easily, with one hand up in the air, "I'm looking for Davey. On business for the Archbishop."

The human seems taken aback by that and falters on what to say next.

"Oh. Well, I wasn't told to expect anyone..."

LaCroix doesn't even have to pretend to be put off, "Pray tell me, why would they be telling  _ you _ , anything?"

The man buckles under the pressure straight away, "I mean, yeah good point. Sorry, sir."

His eyes dart around nervously and LaCroix wonders how much the Sabbat tells them.

"Uh, Davey's not here but I can take you to my boss?"

"Who is..."

" Oh, my boss is Jorge."

"Well then show me to him," LaCroix says, "You've wasted enough of my time as it is."

"Right! Of course," he says before signaling LaCroix to follow him further into the complex.

He steels himself. The main structure, the warehouse, is surrounded by smaller trailers that LaCroix assumes function as construction offices. There's more activity than he's expecting and he's hyperaware of all the eyes that follow track him around closely. Distantly he feels a sliver of panic at the thought of being trapped and surrounded inside the brick walls, surely outside of Nines' line of sight. How pathetic a thought to have.

He doesn't show his doubts though, keeps his shoulders square, eyes forwards and nose up-turned. For this to work, he must be unbothered. Inside the actual warehouse, there's a large group of muscle, that all turn around to look at him as he's led upstairs to what looks to be the overseer's office, with large blinded windows overlooking the spacious room. Inside there are boxes everywhere as if things were in the process of being shuffled around with little rhythm or proper organization. Inside the man 'Jorge', LaCroix assumes, has his feet up on the desk as he reads a magazine and looks very obviously annoyed at being disturbed.

"What the hell?"

LaCroix steps ahead, looking at the lackey who led him there, "Leave us now."

The boy seemed nervous ducked out of the room without another word, most likely eager to avoid a confrontation between kindred.

"Who are you," Jorge demands, jumping out of his seat to circle the desk.

"The archbishop sent me. I'm to overlook the arms shipments, as command isn't satisfied everything here is going to their standards."

The man's shoulders square up in defense, "We've been doing everything they tell us to."

"Evidently not enough," LaCroix says but sees in the man's angry demeanor that he's going to have to change his angle.

"I'm not here to cause problems for anyone," he adds, dipping his voice down into something more casual, "It's mostly just protocol, we can keep this simple."

It relaxes the man, but he's still on edge, his mouth still open to reveal sharp fangs, "I don't know, Davey left me in charge and he didn't say shit about this."

"I had been sent to talk to Davey. The higher-ups don't usually give advance notice of such things."

Jorge nods but eyes LaCroix up and down with heavy suspicion.

"What are you?" he asks.

"Rather intrusive, don't you think?" LaCroix snaps back.

The guy, grins, malicious, "Are you one of those Tszimisce that likes to walk around with human skin?"

He reaches out to grab LaCroix's hand, and he rejects the touch with urgent immediacy.

"Do _ not _ touch me," he says, with his dominate ability in full force.

It works and Jorge straightens up in response to the command.

"This is ridiculous," LaCroix says, mostly to himself, "A waste of time."

He clears his throat and looks straight at the man, eye contact all hypnotizing, "You will not remember my face. You were too drunk to remember. Go sit in the broom closet with your eyes closed for the next hour."

The guy stumbles back. "I will not remember your face. I'm going to go sit with my eyes closed," he repeats faithfully, before making his way to the closet, closing the door behind him.

LaCroix lets out a sigh of relief - it was the type of command that often wouldn't work on older kindred, so it was always a risk. It did make his job much easier now, as he was free to investigate as he saw fit.

Though it would be difficult to sort through what was important information through all the mess. As he began looking through the different boxes, he quickly realized the grand majority were incredibly mundane and irrelevant: things leftover from whatever this warehouse was for kine before Sabbat took over. None of the dates would line up to anything that could be of use to him and after ten minutes he feared this would be a wasted effort.

That is until he finds a back room full of empty boxes, most unmarked, except one. One near the bottom showed a green logo reading 'Rocky Arms', the silhouette a mountain range behind the words. No manifest inside, but its something.

With considerable irritation, he realized he might need more than what's in this office. It would be a risk to approach any of the other people downstairs. And then it hits him - he opens the broom closet where Jorge is sitting crossed legged eyes closed.

"Show me where the shipping manifests are for Rocky Arms."

In that dominated voice, Jorge repeats the command back to him, "I will show you where the shipping manifests are for Rocky Arms."

He stands up and walks stiffly past LaCroix, where he starts moving the desk from where it stood. Dragging it several feet to the left and revealing a ground safe which had been previously obscured.

"Well, that would have saved me a lot of time."

The man then starts working to unlock the safe, dialing the numbers in one at a time. Then he stands up dazed.

The success excites him and he starts waving Jorge away, "Go on then. Back to the broom closet."

He obediently does so.

He digs into the safe, there are a few stacks of money - LaCroix imagines it's only an emergency stash - some keys to who knows what, and a manilla folder filled to the brim. He opens and reads and starts taking out files and papers to begin to sort what's important.

The first packet of papers seems in line with everything else he found in the office, excessive detailing of what seems to be a reputable kine business, but then in the last half of the folder, there are things more pertinently relevant.

Things such as an updated deed, pay schedules and contact info of cannon fodder that's of no interest to him, and finally, the weapons deals. It's hard to tell immediately what negotiations are legitimate things with unsuspecting humans and what deals might have been done with kindred. He opens one of the drawers at the desk, digs through until he finds paper and pen and begins the process of copying everything.

Names, numbers, anything that might be something. He had heard vaguely of the other manufacturers, but 'Rocky Arms' still rings unfamiliar, and he makes careful note of it. As he begins putting everything back, shuffling the paperwork back into the order he found it in.

It's in that movement, that something falls. A sticky note, what it was stuck to he's unsure, but on it is scribbled: DR SWEET, BARSTOW.

It sounds so deeply familiar, like a name that might have been exchanged around him before. He knows for sure, he's heard it, but its been too long to place. Even just on the paper somehow, he feels the potential of it in ink and slips it into the back pocket of his pants, resolving to look into it on his own first.

The rest he'll show to Nines, he decides and he puts it securely away in his coat. He'll be upset for keeping things from him but LaCroix feels the compulsion irresistibly.

He does his best to leave everything in the same order and position as he found it. Double-checking, triple-checking before making his way down the stairs. It's significantly more difficult to keep his gaze forced forward and casual as he once again feels eyes on him. He hears the way conversation quiets and imagines the beginnings of whispers and commentary.

LaCroix keeps moving and he makes it out of the warehouse. He starts thinking, that it went too smoothly, far too easily, when not ten yards out a voice calls out to him from the structure. 

"Hey, hold up."

He freezes, ice over his shoulders. LaCroix turns around, neutral and cool as if this wasn't the death sentence it felt like.

"Heard you were here earlier looking for me, it's Davey," the man says holding out a hand to shake. LaCroix hopes his second of hesitation doesn't show before he takes the taller man's firm handshake.

"Yes...Jorge was able to help me already so I was taking my leave."

"The archbishop sent you, right? What's your name?"

"Martin," he says quickly, dropping the first name that came into his mind, "Martin Smith."

"I've never heard of you," Davey says, "But I'm still getting to know everyone."

"Right," LaCroix says and tries to quell the rising panic that is scratching at him, hope his darting eyes don't give him away.

"Jorge's an idiot, I can't imagine he was helpful, come back up to the office so we can go over everything."

Tension takes hold fully then, that even if somehow the man he left mind-controlled did not become an issue, there would be no way he could keep up an involved conversation with this man without revealing himself.

"Very kind of you, but I don't think that will be necessary..."

"It's for my assurance too," Davey specifies with a suspiciously easy smile, "I like to know what's happening on my base."

It strikes LaCroix that this man is more competent than he expected, and power-hungry recognizes power-hungry. It strikes him then too, that he truly had been holding onto faith in Nines Rodriguez of all people to be an omnipresent protector. He does not know how best to signal that he needs help, other than looking into shadows and hoping for a distraction to be triggered.

"Understandable," LaCroix says, "and commendable. The Sabbat rewards that kind of initiative."

He's trying to buy time and the way the guy squares his shoulders tells him he at least said the right thing. But when he looks over past him, he sees several other Sabbat looking at them, circling in a predatory rhythm.

LaCroix thinks about running, briefly. Instead, he forces a smile.

Davey opens his mouth to speak again when he flinches - arms moving to cover his face as an explosion goes off in the distance. One of the many cars parked around the facility took the brunt, flipping over and going up in flames. All the activity around them suddenly redirects, the swarm moving around the explosion in increased panic. It's less than ten seconds before the next explosion goes off, this time accompanied by pained screams among the crowd. This time, Davey throws himself and LaCroix down on the ground, hissing at the nearby flames.

"Hold on," Davey says, before rushing towards the impact site.

LaCroix crawls backward before forcing himself up to his feet, ignoring the stinging cuts of gravel on bare hands. He breaks into a run the second he can, ignoring the increasing chaos and the sound of a third explosion. He's running in the direction toward the street, inwardly begging no one has time to see him go.

He stops by one of the large crates in the area when he hears voices in his direction. He freezes but reacts fast, stumbling back and round a corner when a hand catches his wrist, and he's pulled bodily into a hard chest.

His instinct is to panic, but the hands that move to his shoulders are comforting and bright blue eyes that meet his, familiar.

"It's me," Nines mouthes silently, before pulling LaCroix into one of the many shipping containers around the warehouse, holding them still in the dark corner inside as the sound of footsteps and commotion pass them by.

He thinks it's excessive, the way Nines keeps him pressed against him, with a solid arm around his shoulders - as if he wouldn't have known to keep quiet while the Sabbat ran circles around them. It's not a situation where he can voice dissent if he wished to, but strangely he does not feel the need. He's too preoccupied with the relief of not being alone. 

When its been quiet for at least a minute, Nines lets him go but moves to grab his wrist again, leading them out of the cargo container. LaCroix can do nothing but trust him and follow, let Nines lead him on the quietest, fastest route cloaked in the darkest shadows.

LaCroix is on edge until they make it back to the car, his wrist sore where Nines had been pulling him along. He can't shake the tension of the encounter till Nines has shifted into drive and they start to put real distance between themselves and the warehouse.

When they finally get back on the highway LaCroix has gotten over the ordeal, enough to begin talking at least.

Nines as well, it seems, and they start talking over each other.

"I found -"

"Are you -"

LaCroix stops, "You first."

Nines lets out a small laugh, "No, I...I was just going to ask if you were okay."

LaCroix doesn't understand him, won't ever, "Oh. I'm fine. You have incredible timing."

"So I've been told," Nines said, "You were saying you found something."

He breaks down all he's learned.

* * *

Nines gets off the highway and finds an empty lot to park in. LaCroix hands over everything he had meticulously copied down and Nines arrives at the same conclusions. 

"Rocky Arms?" he asks, "I've never heard of them."

"Neither have I, but I found an empty shipping box of theirs. The logo has mountains on it," LaCroix elaborates.

Nines looks up at him, eyebrows furrowed, "Mountains?"

He looks deep in thought when LaCroix prompts him, "What is it?"

"It might be nothing, but...A friend of mine mentioned something like that."

Nines rubs the back of his neck, figuring out how to best elaborate, "She's Malkavian. She said a lot of things, could just be a coincidence."

LaCroix hums, "There's so rarely coincidence among kindred."

So they decide it must be important and Nines takes them to a gun shop. Make the best use of the early hour, he says, though he wouldn't have considered it. 

"Might as well go straight to the source, plus Damsel told me this guy knows distributors when I told her what we were looking into," he says to LaCroix's hesitance. It's not the type of establishment he would be rushing to visit - flickering neo lights that signaled it was open despite the blacked out and fenced up windows, while a crude silhouette of a curvy woman holding a gun was painted on the brick walls. He doesn't voice it, but he is sure his distaste shows on his face if the way Nines smirk is anything to go by.

He follows Nines' lead here with no comment and without being told to - Nines strode into the store all confident shoulders and friendly smiles. The man at the counter is rugged and bearded, with a stony demeanor. LaCroix can't imagine they'll get much out of him but Nines' stride betrays no worries.

"Hey, was wondering if you could help me with something," Nines starts.

"Depends," the man says crossing his arms.

Nines lean one elbow on the counter, casual and untroubled.

"My friend here's never owned a gun before. It's been an uphill battle but I think I finally convinced him over to our side," Nines lies with a playful sort of ease. The man looks skeptical, but shifts to appraise him with less kindness than he was sure to show Nines.

"'s that so?" the man says.

"It's cruel times we live in," Nines says, "I told him he's better off being able to defend himself."

The man hums a deep approval, "I've got a few good beginner handguns to show."

"Don't go too easy on him. He might not look it but he can handle a lot," Nines says, looking back at him with a small smirk. LaCroix would be offended if it wasn't so playful, if he couldn't see how obviously he's playing the other man. It's carefully placed charm and hitting sweet spots and the conversation moves on without him. There's friendly debate about recoil and grip and the novelty of shooting a barrelled pistol that ends in full-belly laughs from the man. They're discussing Colts and Barrets and LaCroix can only watch in admiration as Nines swiftly navigates the conversation into gun manufacturers.

"I had a friend of mine recommend me this one manufacturer I hadn't heard of - Rocky Mountain Something?"

"Yeah, yeah, they're real up-and-coming. California-made. I got to visit their plant up north. My buddy knows the start-up guy actually."

"No way," Nines says, genuine, "You wouldn't happen to have the contact info? See, I have a colleague organizing a gun show later this year, he's still recruiting exhibitors."

"No shit," the guy says, "Yeah, I got his number, it should be fine."

Nines smiles, "You're a real one man."

The man seems pleased and relaxed with the encounter, laughs when he suddenly looks ar LaCroix and remembers he 's been there the entire time.

"Why don't we get your friend one to try out?" he says moving around to look through his supply.

He leans over towards Nines conspiratorially, "Usually, we keep the gun range closed at night, but I think I can make an exception for you guys."

He then moves out from behind the counter and leads them down to the underground level with a few guns to try and a length of explanations LaCroix is convinced are either to condescend down to him or bait Nines into further conversation. It's mind-boggling to him - that elusive quality Nines has that makes others want to seek out his company. He's naturally enthralling in a way many lesser kindred desperately attempt to be.

Eventually, the man leaves them; "I can't leave the front alone," he says, and then trusts them there, alone in his establishment with lethal weapons.

"Are you using Presence?" LaCroix asks.

Nines laughs and gives him a sheepish smile, "Just a little bit at the end there. Pretty lucky though, huh?"

He passes LaCroix the slip of paper with the phone number.

"Extremely so. I'll look into it first thing tomorrow," he says to which Nines simply hums in response.

"So," Nines starts, "Are you going to practice or what?"

"What?", it takes a second for LaCroix to catch up, "I already know how to shoot, you know this."

Nines picks up one of the handguns and hands it to him anyway.

"I know," Nines says, "I just want to get a good look at you."

LaCroix freezes and can't cover it up fast enough. Nines must know how it sounds, and LaCroix can't imagine he would throw around implying words so carelessly. No, Nines is looking at him and appraising his next actions with deep consideration.

Like most things involving Nines Rodriguez, it feels like a challenge with no room to refuse. He goes through the steps with an automatic efficiency - legs apart, shoulders square and safety off. When he lines up the sight with his target, he does so at the top of his inhale. It's a solid shot, he thinks, considering firearms have never been his specialty. The shot that follows is even better, but the one after is not. Regardless, Nines seems impressed, and it's such a rush LaCroix has to stop himself from preening. 

"Pretty good," Nines praises, "I couldn't see your shooting stance when we were in the car. I had been wondering."

"I will admit, I'm not well-versed in the methodology of it. The weapons I initially learned with are very different from what we have today."

This interests him, LaCroix can tell, and Nines asks, "Muskets and rifles? Don't fire till you see the white of their eyes?"

LaCroix huffs, "Yes and no, my orders were hardly ever so dramatic."

"Right, you were a soldier. What army?"

"When I was very young. Napoleon, the Russian front," LaCroix says.

Nines eyebrows shoot up, he rubs his neck as he considers, “I guess always forget you’re that much older than me.”

“Not that much older, for our standards…Still, I tried to keep up with the changing times," LaCroix continues, mostly to derail the conversation away from the uncomfortable topic of a life already lived, "A necessity. What were you saying about stances?"

Nines stares at him for a long moment, eyes of someone who wants to keep poking till he knows more. But in the end, he does nothing of the sort.

"Pick up the gun again, make to shoot," Nines directs.

He follows the order, letting his instinct once again take over instead of attempting a calculated show. Nines comes closer to him, touches where his right arm is extended completely.

"You're in a Chapman stance," Nines explains, "It makes sense since you learned with a rifle. You hold your strong arm straight as if you were holding a stock. You even tilt your head into your shoulder."

"Interesting," LaCroix murmurs, "Is it inefficient?"

"Not at all," Nines says quickly, removing his hand from where it was touching him, "It's a very accurate stance. There are others that are easier to shift into with pistols, though."

LaCroix nods; Nines has a way of saying things so that they don't sound patronizing.

"Show me," LaCroix says, pointing the gun towards the target again. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Nines hesitate so he emphasizes, "Show me how to do it."

Nines approaches him from behind, slowly, like he's still thinking about it. Strange, LaCroix thinks, from how little he hesitated to touch him all night. He thinks Nines is very generally a person of flesh, it's natural for him to touch and be touched and he most likely hadn't thought about it in those moments of instinct.

It's different when he's being asked to, different when he has the time and clarity to consider exactly who is doing the asking. But LaCroix holds his ground and Nines follows - a hand over his hand and another over his shoulder, shaping him into place.

"Keep your legs a little further apart, both your arms have to be extended," Nines says in a hushed voice next to his ear. The lower tone feels intimate and LaCroix finds himself consumed by the pang of attraction it brings. Nines grip is steady despite his earlier hesitation and though LaCroix isn't looking he still feels the proximity on his back - half a step taken forward and they would be pressed against each other.

LaCroix knows this is going to be a sticky sort of memory, the kind that won't leave him for days and that will only get worse and morph in retrospect when they're apart.

"Keep your head straight and try now," Nines says, still holding onto him. He holds a breath for a second before squeezing the trigger, Nines holding him through the recoil. An almost perfect shot lies just outside the bullseye.

Nines takes a step back and huffs a laugh, "Good to know you're not just a pretty face. "

He tries to tease out a sense of offense in himself but finds he's too caught up in the confirmation that Nines finds him attractive.

"I could say similarly for you."

Nines raises an eyebrow and the small smile that plays off his eyes and his lips are amused, "People don't usually call me pretty."

They should, LaCroix thinks, though the word hardly encompasses it. 

"Don't fish for compliments, it's unbecoming," LaCroix says, "But I have been impressed with you today."

"Can't imagine you held Anarchs in any kind of high regard. Your standards were probably just low."

"Maybe," he replies, and then stops, "Except I always knew you were capable."

Something flashes across Nines face and again, he looks at LaCroix like he's a puzzle. Most likely debating internally what's worse - a blind fool or one who sees and makes foolish choices regardless? One who is unknowingly cruel or chooses to be?

Nines is obviously in a good mood so he drops it, but LaCroix feels it like a grave left unsettled and disturbed. LaCroix looks through the other guns and picks up one they hadn't looked at yet.

"Show me again," LaCroix says, "Show me another stance."

Nines is still looking at him long and hard before lifting a hand to LaCroix's shoulder. He turns him around gently but bodily - the hand feels so heavy on him and LaCroix surmises that he must be devastatingly touch-starved for it to affect him so.

"Rodriguez," he starts but he's interrupted.

"You can call me Nines, you know."

He turns around to meet Nines, as if to check that Nines understands what he's doing. Before he can reject or perhaps even more foolishly, agree, the door to the range opens.

In steps that shop owner and immediately Nines disengages, shifts into character to make more friendly conversation. LaCroix isn't even surprised by the feeling of disappointment anymore - he is becoming keenly aware of the attachment he was nursing, and which continued to grow without his consent.

They end up making their way back up upstairs and Nines ends up buying the 9mm from Rocky Arms, registered under a fake name and address. The man never seems to fully accept LaCroix's presence there, and he's happy to leave. When they're back in the car, Nines drops the case on his lap.

"We were shopping for you," Nines says, with a small quirk of his lips, "It'll be good to keep on you, for things you can't talk your way out of." 

"What makes you think I don't carry something already?"

"Do you?"

LaCroix pulls out a swiss army knife, kept hidden in one of his inside jacket pockets and laughs, "I guess you could say I trust my ability to talk my way out of things very much."

It causes a laugh and the atmosphere of the drive dares to strive close to something akin to amicable.

He takes the gun with him, and when Nines leaves him at his apartment that night, he hides it under his bed. He's not sure what to think of it, but he's keenly aware of it as he falls asleep. He's aware of Nines, and wonders if he's made a huge mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dont actually know anything about guns but I did read a very long (and amazingly detailed) article about stances! Partially inspired between a scene in hannibal s1 between will and beverly


End file.
